"There is a witch that lives in that house," I said as we walked by the old house on Exmouth St.
"Do you really think so?" Randy asked.
"Yup. It has to be. Who else would live in a house like that?" The house was old and made of rotting wood, which the paint had peeled off of long ago. The windows were dirty, and one could barely see the old tattered curtains that hung in the windows. The handrail going up the steps to the front door was falling off, and the grass was three feet high. There was an old rickety picket fence that surrounded the property. The place reminded me of a smaller ve…
